


Breakable

by Topicabo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Greg knows his Mycroft well, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Britpicked, it'll be fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-12
Packaged: 2018-11-13 06:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11178756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/pseuds/Topicabo
Summary: Greg and Mycroft receive a reminder of how fragile people really are. Both physically and emotionally.(Note: This is an edited repost of Chapter 5 of November Mystrade)





	Breakable

**Author's Note:**

> Another day, another case of trying to shake off writer's block by re-editing some old stuff.

The first time Greg had been shot was during firearms training. He’d taken a wax bullet to his right calf. Fortunately, the distance between him and the bullet was such that while the impact had hurt like hell, it hadn’t resulted in any lasting damage.

 

The second time had happened while he was still a sergeant. A cornered robber had let loose several rounds before he could be disarmed, one of which had grazed Greg’s shoulder. That one stung more than anything else, leaving him with a light scar above his triceps. He didn’t mind it too much; it made for an interesting conversation starter.

 

The third time was the most recent. It was also the worst. A suspect had holed up in a 2nd floor flat with an open window facing the street. There’d been no indication that he had been armed, so they’d been caught unaware when he’d opened fire. Greg had felt a sensation like a sharp rock smacking into his left side. There’d hardly been any immediate pain; just an odd numbness spreading through his body as he’d dumbly watched the blood soak through his shirt.

 

He didn’t remember much after that. Just muddled voices and hazy images from the ride in the ambulance. It was when he’d woken up that the pain finally registered; a burning, pulsating ache barely tempered by the medication he’d been on. Later, he’d learned the bullet had struck his kidney, forcing the doctors to remove it. But he would get along fine with just the surviving partner.

 

He’d been lucky. It wasn’t an experience Greg wanted to repeat, but in the end he was just grateful to have come out of it more or less intact.

 

Anyone who didn’t know Mycroft would assume the man had been relatively unaffected by the whole incident. Greg knew better. He’d been aware enough during that first hospital visit to recognize how the pale Mycroft had become, the way he’d been clutching his umbrella handle so tightly that his knuckles had turned white, how uncharacteristically wide his eyes had been. Greg had never seen that expression from Mycroft before, and he hoped he’d never have to see it again.

 

After being discharged from hospital, Mycroft had all but insisted that Greg stay with him while recuperating. Greg put up a minor resistance, but he couldn’t deny the extra assistance would be useful. Not to mention what he’d known it meant for Mycroft’s peace of mind.

 

About two months later, Greg walked in the door of Mycroft’s flat after his first day back at NSY. He’d only been allowed to perform desk duties, but somehow just catching up on paperwork had been exhausting. Mycroft had texted to say he wouldn’t be home for another hour. Greg trudged up the staircase and headed into the bedroom, toeing off his shoes and socks on his way to the en suite. Flipping on the light threw the bathroom into stark relief, and his eyes fell upon the large Jacuzzi tub to his left.

 

The idea of long soak sounded absolutely perfect. At this point, he’d been allowed to shower again without wrapping plastic wrap around his wound, but he hadn’t had a proper bath since the incident. He eagerly turned on the water, fine-tuning the temperature to a level just a little hotter than necessary. Then he shed the rest of his clothes while the tub filled, taking a second to examine himself in the mirror. Greg could still make out where the stitches had once been, redness flaring out in a small wave-like mark from the site. Swiveling his head, he could also see where the bullet had exited his back. He grimaced, but only momentarily before padding back over to the bath.

 

He entered slowly, adjusting to the heat bit by bit until he was submerged up to his neck. He groaned low in his throat, tilting his head back as he let his body go limp. Truthfully, Greg found the bells and whistles involved in luxury living somewhat overrated. He didn’t see the need for things like seat warmers in a car or TVs that could be voice activated. But he had to admit that he was warming up to these little bouts of self-indulgence. Especially when Mycroft took such simple pleasure in providing them.

 

Greg’s eyes drifted shut as he floated down into that place between sleep and consciousness, time becoming ambiguous and less defined. He resurfaced mentally at the sound of approaching footsteps. He kept his eyes closed, stirring when a hand caressed his cheek.

 

“You shouldn’t fall asleep while bathing.”

 

“I wasn’t. Just dozing.”

 

There was a rustling sound, and then lips brushed against his forehead. He reached out and curved his fingers around the nape of a neck, drawing the person in for a proper greeting. The angle didn’t allow for deepening the kiss as much he’d like, but he was so comfortable that it hardly mattered, and the mouth pressed against his own was firm and warm.

 

Greg pulled back for a breath and finally opened his eyes. “Missed you today,” he whispered, smiling up at Mycroft.

 

“As did I. Did things go smoothly?”

 

“Yeah, just filled out papers. They’re not gonna let me back on active duty for another week or so.”

 

“I see.” Mycroft’s tone was nonchalant, but Greg didn’t miss the slight undercurrent of relief. And apprehension. He sighed, sliding his hand down to Mycroft’s forearm and giving a gentle squeeze.

 

“Think I’ll get out now.”

 

“I’ll get you a towel,” Mycroft said, straightening up.

 

Greg opened the drain and stepped out, muttering a soft “Thanks” as he took the cloth that Mycroft held out to him. After a quick pat down, he wrapped the towel around his waist, pausing when he noticed Mycroft staring at him. “What?”

 

Mycroft’s mouth parted, but then closed without a sound being uttered. His gaze made a slow path down Greg’s body, zeroing on the marred flesh of the abdomen. Moving closer, Mycroft lifted his hand, hesitating before ghosting his fingers along the remnants of the wound. He exhaled softly, his shoulders sagging as though the air had deflated out of him.

 

“Hey…” Greg gently cupped Mycroft’s chin, tilting his face upwards. Their eyes met, and there was an uncomfortable tightening in Greg’s throat at the lost, anxious uncertainty he saw in those blue depths.

 

Mycroft had never looked more painfully human than he did at that moment.

 

Greg pulled Mycroft against his chest, and the other man made a hitched noise like he’d been caught off guard. With a huff, Greg hooked his chin onto Mycroft’s shoulder. “I’m here. Okay? I’m right here.”

 

Mycroft didn’t respond for a few long seconds. Then, slowly, his arms shifted, drawing them closer together. Greg felt the tremors start, heard Mycroft’s breathing go shivery.

 

“I know,” Mycroft whispered, trembling and clinging to Greg as though he were the only thing keeping him from crumbling apart. “I know.”

 

Nodding, Greg pressed his face against Mycroft’s neck, breathing him in. He didn’t see the use for any more words. Not right then. For now, nothing to do but quietly reassure Mycroft that he was there, and he was whole. And if Greg had his way, he would keep it that way for as long as he could.

**Author's Note:**

> Though speaking of writer's block, actually surprisingly difficult to get this one adjusted to what I wanted. Mostly near the ending. As usual though, feels like it flows much better now.


End file.
